


Trifles

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Ficlets, microstories, drabbles, 221Bs, flash fiction, writing exercises, bad ideas, mini-sagas, vignettes, nonsense."I have no time for trifles." -- Sherlock Holmes11. Death and Honey. A small sequel to Neil Gaiman's "The Case of Death and Honey." No Major Character Death.12. Consulting Grammarian. Sherlock is silently correcting our grammar.13. And Here You Are. A scene from Fight Club.14. Yes or No. A game provides some answers.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 120
Kudos: 116





	1. Table of Contents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Table of Contents and Summaries

1\. **Table of Contents** ; summaries

2\. **Just Kidding** (221B). Which proves that Holmes really is a bastard.

3\. **One Bed**. Watson goes shopping for a new mattress. Holmes makes deductions. Of course they won’t be needing two beds.

4\. **Coffee, Tea, or…?** First meeting. Sherlock is gorgeous, and John just wants a cuppa. It’s not a letter, it’s a drink.

5\. **Confessions**. Trapped in a lift. Time for confessions, because that’s what people do.

6\. **Forget It** (221B). Amnesia can strike at any time. Especially when it’s somebody’s turn to buy the milk.

7\. **Full Moon** (221B). Vampire Sherlock; werewolf John.

8\. **The Rest of the Story**.An old man makes a shocking confession.

9\. **Hobbit Hole** (221B). I don’t want any adventures, thank you. (John, you’re really not the sitting-down type.)

10\. **Oenology**. Drunk discussion, a Mitch Hedberg joke, and the Science of Seduction.

11\. **Death and Honey**. A small sequel to Neil Gaimon's "The Case of Death and Honey."

12\. **Consulting Grammarian**. Sherlock is silently correcting your grammar.

13\. **And Here You Are**. A scene from Fight Club. This is real, you’re thinking. This man is going to kill me.

14\. **Yes or No.** A game provides some answers.


	2. Just Kidding

Holmes gave a sigh and sank into his chair. “Watson, I don’t know if I have any more deductions in me.”

Watson looked up from his novel and frowned. “I thought you were done with that case,” he said, smiling. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing it up in a little brochure I’ve given the somewhat fantastical title, _The Comical Case of the Practical Joker._ ”

Holmes snorted. “Rubbish. My mental processes are slowing under the weight of such nonsense. I’m afraid you’ll have to go, old boy.”

“Beg pardon?” Used to such rantings, Watson had gone back to his book. “Go where?”

“Leave. I don’t care where. Our partnership is at an end. I can manage the rent, and you’ve got your romance writing to occupy you. No, this was all a mistake, I’m afraid. Best to make a clean cut, rip the plaster off— a new beginning. Goodbye, old boy. I’ll miss you.”

“Miss me?” Watson was aghast. “Just like that— _Goodbye, old boy, I’ll miss you_?”

“I’ll send your things.”

“But— it’s late! I have nowhere to go—“

Holmes pulled him to his feet and propelled him towards the door.

On the landing, Watson turned, his face slack with amazement. “I don’t understand…”

Holmes glared for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, your face!”

Watson huffed. “You bastard!”


	3. One Bed

Holmes had never actually been in a mattress store before. In fact, he wasn’t truly sure where mattresses came from, his own having simply existed on his bed frame for years. It came with the flat, he thought.

“Why are we here?” he asked.

Watson smiled. “Elementary, my dear Holmes. I need a new mattress. Perhaps you can apply your deductive skills to finding the best one for me.”

“Perhaps you should get some of your girlfriends to take up a collection and pay for it,” Holmes suggested. “The real mystery is why there are so many mattress stores. And why they all collect in the same strip malls, next to VCR repair shops and Beauty Supply stores. They must be fronts for something, maybe laundering money. And so many sales people loitering about. They’re like flies. Let’s go before they come over here and start persuading us.”

“Not a chance,” said Watson. “What kind of mattress should I get?”

“It’s a mattress. How many kinds can there possibly be?”

They gazed out over acres of shiny, quilted surfaces, white and blue.

“I’ve been reading up on this,” Watson replied. “There’s Standard, and Queen, and King. And California King.”

Holmes scoffed. “California doesn’t have a king.”

“Yes it does, but it’s a bed.”

“I’m going to delete that fact,” Holmes said. “It takes up too much space.”

“Yes, it is a very large bed. Perhaps a Queen would do.”

“A Queen?” Holmes frowned at the mattress they were investigating. “Watson, you’re a very small man, and are likely to get lost in this mattress. I would have to come looking for you every morning— and find you lost in the bedding.”

“I’m not so small,” Watson huffed. “Why must you always be pointing out that I’m short? Does it give you a feeling of superiority?”

“Not at all. I merely mean that the chief proof of a man’s real greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. By such a standard, you might be the greatest of men.”

“Thank you.” Watson sat down on the Queen mattress and looked up at Holmes. “How do I look on this one?”

“I think you need to lie down. Yes, there’s a good fellow. Now, I’ll perch here beside you and pretend I’m waking you up.” He sat and began to shake Watson. “Come, Watson, Come! The game is afoot! Not a word! Out of your clothes and come!”

“I think you mean _into your clothes._ ” Watson looked comfortable on the Queen mattress. “Lie here beside me, Holmes.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to see how the bed will accommodate two people.”

“You mean you and one of those women,” he replied. “The experiment is flawed, as I have not the correct proportions.”

Watson pulled him down. “Stop complaining. That’s better. Now, put your arms around me.”

“Watson, I hardly think—“

But he found his arms around his flatmate, his body pressed against that lovely, compact form. _Greatness, indeed_. Watson was certainly a _great_ man. He could feel his greatness poking against his thigh.

“I think we might kiss,” Holmes suggested. “Surely that would increase the value of the experiment.”

“It would.” Watson pressed his lips against Holmes’ collarbone, nipping his way up his neck, over his jawline, and finally arriving at his lips.

“An excellent mattress,” Holmes murmured, then seized his partner’s lips with his own, making deductions as his tongue probed more deeply.

“I won’t be wearing my trousers in bed, though,” Watson whispered. “Nor will you. Perhaps we should—“

“Gentlemen, may I help you?”

They had apparently drawn the attention of one of the many salespeople.

“We’ll take this one,” said Watson. “How soon can it be delivered?”

Holmes sat up, glaring at the salesman. “I don’t believe this one is going to fit in your room, Watson.”

“But it will fit in yours, my dear.” The doctor smiled. “And so will I.”


	4. Coffee, Tea, or...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John just wants a cuppa.

John didn’t know why he went to coffee shops. He didn’t even like coffee, and those shops never did tea well. But he had a half an hour to kill, and his leg ached a bit, so he might as well get a pastry and a cup of whatever passed for tea there.

The barista was new. Not only new, but tall and gorgeous. Dark curly hair tumbled over his forehead as he smiled at John. “What can I get you?” His voice was like chocolate, dark and suggestive. His name tag said _Sherlock._

“A cuppa would be fine. And one of those chocolate things,” he said, pointing at the case.

The barista used a waxed paper to grab the chocolate thing and placed it on a small plate. “And a cup of…?”

“Just a cuppa. You know. Tea.”

“A cup of…” The handsome barista frowned, his cupid’s bow mouth creating a charming moue. “Starts with T… let me see.” He looked up at the menu board.

“Just tea. Hot tea, with a bit of milk.”

“Maybe... Tomato juice?” The barista looked hopeful, his opalescent eyes widening.

“Tea. T-E-A. It’s not a letter. It’s a drink.”

“Tequila!” Pleased with himself, the barista grabbed the bottle and a clean glass. “Straight?”

“No. It doesn’t begin with T, it _is_ tea. Just a Cup. Of. Tea.”

The barista shrugged, a delicate movement that revealed years of ballet training. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “I’ve almost got it.” His eyelashes fluttered, their darkness contrasting with the porcelain paleness of his skin.

“There’s nothing to _get_ ,” John said, exasperated. “And I’ve been telling you: tea. It comes in bags. You put it in hot water and let it steep.”

The barista turned and began to rummage around behind the bar. John studied his perfect arse with fascination. He imagined his hands around those twin mounds of luscious—

“Erm, perhaps…” John flushed, tried to remember what he was doing here. _Tea_. That’s right.

“I’m sorry,” the gorgeous man announced. “Nothing like that here.” He leaned over the counter, giving John a seductive, but inexperienced smile. “Can I offer you something else?” Two buttons flew off of his skin-tight shirt.

John made a final attempt. “Seriously, you’ve never heard of tea?”

“We don’t carry it,” the barista said. “We have a few off-menu specials, if you’re interested.” Biting his lower lip, he raised his eyebrows in invitation.

John licked his lips. He imagined that those long alabaster limbs wrapped around him. That mouth, doing clever things with his— “Erm. Maybe you could show me?”


	5. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a lift. Time for confessions, because that's what people do.

Holmes: We appear to be stuck.

Watson: Well, I suppose it's time for confessions, then.

Holmes: Confessions?

Watson: Well, that's what people do. When stuck in lifts, I mean.

Holmes: I wouldn't know. They've just been invented, so one can hardly have a lot of prior experience. It is rather alarming, though.

Watson: Quite. Well, we have to pass the time somehow, until someone figures out how to fix the blasted thing.

Holmes: Fine. I'll go first. I confess, I hate the way you write.

Watson: I'm aware that you think I romanticise your cases, but honestly--

Holmes: No, not _what_ you write. The _way_ you write. I can't stand to hear you scratching away, and then you pause, looking perplexed, and then you resume scratching. _Scratch, pause. Scritchety-scratch, pause_. I shall never buy you one of those infernal typewriting machines, Watson, because I would go mad. _Clack, pause. Clackety-clack, pause_ —

Watson: Fine. I confess that I can barely stand it when you scrape away on your violin—tuneless meandering, screeching— It’s like a psychotic cat in heat.

Holmes: But I always play your favourites afterwards, Watson. You must admit that's true.

Watson: Hours of torture, then Mendelssohn for two minutes.

Holmes: I confess that though you do not possess genius yourself, you have a remarkable power of stimulating it in me.

Watson: Why, thank you, Holmes. I have made an effort to master your system, and am glad that I have earned your approval. If there is anything that escapes me--

Holmes: Everything escapes you, my dear Watson. I'm afraid that your conclusions are invariably erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me, I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I have occasionally been guided towards the truth.

Watson ( _irritably_ ): Well! I confess that you are an unemotional machine!

Holmes ( _with annoyance)_ : I confess that you are a sentimental idiot!

Watson ( _heatedly)_ : I confess that you could use a bit of sentiment!

_The lift gives a lurch; then silence; the lights go out._

Holmes ( _holding Watson tightly_ ): My dear man, I confess... there is no one I'd rather be with... if we must...

Watson ( _holding Holmes just as tightly_ ): And I must confess that I feel the same... my dear...

_The lift lurches again and the lights come on. We can see that our two dear men are kissing. The lift begins to move, and they gaze tenderly at each other._

Holmes ( _fondly_ ): My conductor of light. Please forget all of those things I said.

Watson ( _whispering_ ): Think no more of it, my dearest. I love your violin. And I love you.

Holmes: I have deduced that. And it is not a fallacy if you have deduced the same about me. You stimulate more than my mind.

Watson: I confess myself a bit stimulated as well. Home, then?

_The doors open and they step out._

Holmes: Yes, home.

Watson ( _smiling_ ): I knew that there was a secret romantic lurking beneath that unemotional exterior.

Holmes: Well, don't gloat too much, Watson. I shall never marry you, lest I bias my judgment.

Watson: Never fear, my dear. Marriage between men is not yet legal. We shall have to make do, living in sin.

Holmes: O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again!*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Romeo and Juliet, Act I Scene 5


	6. Forget It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amnesia can strike at any time.

John looked up from his laptop. “Did you get the milk?”

Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking a bit lost. “I don’t remember you telling me to get milk.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?”

Sherlock was scanning the room as if were a crime scene. “I live here.” The look shifted to John. “And you’re…”

Sighing, John returned to his computer. “Look, Sherlock, you don’t have to pretend you have amnesia just because you forgot the milk. Not like it’s the first time.”

“You called me Sherlock. That must be my name.” He smiled. “Oh, now I remember you. You’re my husband.”

“What?” John closed the laptop. “We’re not married, Sherlock.”

“Civil partnership,” the detective replied. “All the signs are here, Greg.“

“I’m not Greg!“ John sputtered. “I’m John! _Greg_ is Lestrade, whose name you always _pretend_ you’ve forgotten just to annoy him. How can you forget the milk and remember an entire relationship with me that doesn’t exist?”

“Wait.” Sherlock pressed his fingers against his temples. “I’m getting flashes of something.” His eyes opened wide. “I’m a brilliant detective, and you’re my loyal but slightly dim sidekick!”

John sighed. “Let me guess. The amnesia struck suddenly as you were passing Tesco.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “As I was passing Tesco, I remembered the milk. And that it’s your turn to buy.”


	7. Full Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampire Sherlock; werewolf John

“Mr Holmes, is it?” Dr Watson adjusted his face mask and visor. “What’s brought you here tonight?”

Holmes regarded the dentist warily. “You’re the only dentist advertising night hours.”

As soon as he opened his mouth, it would be obvious. The eyes behind those goggles might blanch at the sight of his fangs, one of which he’d broken two nights ago, caught on a studded dog-collar. Why were people still wearing those things? Goth went out ages ago. He ought to have noticed the eyeliner, the black nail varnish…

“Let’s take a look,” Dr Watson said. “Hm. Lovely. Rather prominent canines.” The hands that hovered close to his face, tool in hand, were quite hairy, Holmes noticed.

The dentist pushed his chair back and removed his mask, revealing a full beard. “Well. I think we might try bonding a composite material to the tooth, Mr Holmes. That would be the least invasive. It’s quite a chunk you’ve broken off, though, so you might consider an implant. That would require me to remove the existing tooth. It’s your decision.”

“Whatever is quickest,” he replied. “It’s quite a handicap for me, not being able to…”

A low growl answered him. Moonlight poured through the tiny window.

“Yes, canines are essential,” Dr Watson said, grinning wolfishly.

Holmes returned the smile. “I love your beard.”


	8. The Rest of the Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old man makes a shocking confession.

“I’d like to make a confession,” the old man said. “Not because I’m religious, but because in everyone there is something that wants unburdening. There are things I have kept to myself which I would like you to know. As you are one of the youngest men Scotland Yard has promoted to Inspector, I think you might benefit from my experience. And I would ask you not to reveal what I say to anyone else.”

“Of course,” said his companion. “You can trust me.”

“Thank you,” he said, and began his tale. “When I was a young man, I went into the priesthood, not because I wanted to give my life to God. In fact, I was quite certain that God did not exist. For me, however, there seemed to be no place in life— no calling which let me exercise my deductive talents. From a man’s fingers and boots and the knees of his trousers I could tell his profession and see how life had disappointed him. From a woman’s shoes and shirtsleeves and jewellery I could tell what she did to earn money and whether or not she loved someone. If anyone had asked me how I knew this, I could have explained the observations that led me there. Most people, however, regarded my deductions as impertinent and a bit mad. So I became a priest and looked into men’s souls, uncertain whether I had a soul or not.

“One night a man came to me for confession, and his voice told me that he was a murderer. It had been a long time since he had killed, but now he was dying and wished to confess what he had done.

“He had committed the perfect murder, he said, and knew it was perfect because he’d never been caught. His cancer was a slow form that would give him another few years. He did not reveal any details of his crime, but said that no one had even realised that the death was a murder. He chose a person he had never met, and had no reason for killing them other than to see if anyone would notice. The victim was too young to have died of natural causes. Nevertheless, a natural cause was assumed. The family accepted this unsatisfactory reasoning and let it go. 

“That is what the dying man confessed to me. He gave me no name, no date, no explanation of his method. Though I had many questions, I mumbled the words of absolution, and he left.

“This event changed my life. I began to look at unsolved murders, mysterious deaths of past years. I devoted my life to solving as many as I could, and was remarkably successful— so successful that I left the priesthood and became a detective. At first I worked with Scotland Yard, solving cold cases. Eventually, word of my successes spread, and I took on clients as a private detective. Solving crimes, finding murderers, restoring justice for victims— to these I have devoted my life.”

“It has been a remarkable life,” said his companion. “You truly found your calling, I believe. Did you ever solve the case that started you off, the _perfect_ murder, as you called it?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I solved many murders in my career, unlocked many mysteries that no one else noticed. Perhaps I did solve it. There really is no way to know, is there?

“But here is what I wish to confess to you, my boy. I became obsessed, wondering whether there truly could be an unsolvable crime. It must obviously be a murder, but without any suspects, no weapon, and no opportunity for it to have happened. For many years I planned it, and at last I believed I’d invented the perfect crime. And so it was.”

“You— murdered a man? Just to see if you would be caught?”

“I was unsatisfied, not knowing whether the man who confessed to me was telling the truth. Since I did not know if I’d solved the murder he committed, I had to try it myself. As far as I can tell, I have succeeded.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked the younger man, distraught. “I am no priest!”

“I am telling you because you have a mind that seeks answers. Just as I did, you will try to find this murder and solve it. The idea of it will haunt you, as it haunted me. Is there a perfect murder? Is there a way to snatch a soul while life goes on around the deed, oblivious? My own death, which will happen eventually, will be so much more gratifying, knowing that another carries on after I am gone. This is my legacy to you.”

“But, Mr Holmes— surely, you can’t mean that you’ve killed a man for nothing! You’ve spent your life working for justice—“ The young man struggled for words, then fell silent under the keen gaze of the old man.

“So kind of you to visit me in my retirement,” the detective said. “Thank you, Mr Hopkins. I wish you a long, successful career.”

Once the inspector was gone, Holmes chuckled. “You have a great gift of silence, Watson. I had expected to you give the game away before I had my tale told.”

Watson puffed on his pipe for a moment. “My dear man, even after knowing you for so many years, your ability to tell a boldfaced lie still astonishes me. Why did you tell young Hopkins all that balderdash?”

“He’s a good policeman, and has potential to be the best, but he’s not very skeptical. If he now looks at every case as the perfect murder, he will be more attentive and less inclined to accept easy answers.”

“Aren’t you worried that he may decide to try his own hand at murder?”

“That boy? Not at all! Lestrade says he almost became a priest.”

Watson laughed. “And so did you, according to the tale you just told.”

“Oh, that part was true,” Holmes returned. “I went to seminary before I studied chemistry at Cambridge.”

Watson sat up, leaning forward. “Holmes, please don’t tell me you murdered someone just to see if you could—“

“My dear Watson, you know me— do you really believe me a murderer?”

“Of course not. Though if you had turned your talents in that direction, I believe you could have gotten away with it. Thank heavens you did not! But tell me, did you ever find out the identity of the man who confessed that night?”

“Here is the truth, Watson: it was not to me that he confessed. I was a student, remember, not an ordained priest. The priest who heard the confession was so unnerved that he told me, in confidence. He also told me the name of the man. I had already decided to leave the priesthood at that point, and knowing my talent for deduction, he said that I must look into the man’s history.”

“And you did, I presume.”

“Indeed. He survived cancer and went on to have a long and deadly criminal career.”

“You eventually caught him, I presume.”

Holmes lit his pipe again and puffed until a cloud of blue-grey smoke surrounded his head. “We caught one another, Watson, at Reichenbach.”

He waited, watching his friend’s face to see this fact settle.

Watson nodded. “Ah, yes. Moriarty.”

“But you already knew that part,” Holmes added. “And now you know the rest of the story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remembering Paul Harvey, a radio journalist who used to do a segment called "The Rest of the Story."


	9. Hobbit-Hole (221B)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't want any adventures, thank you.

John Watson stared at the walls of his bedsit. Tiny it certainly was; cozy, most definitely not. Not a proper hobbit-hole by any measure. Though it wasn’t nasty or oozy, there was only one place to sit, on the bed, and nothing to eat.

How he’d gotten himself talked into Afghanistan was a question best not answered. It had a lot to do with that mob of army dwarves who'd decided he had the proper skillset for their _adventure_ ( _shudder_ ). If he were honest with himself, though, it had much more to do with that nosy, meddling wizard, Sherlock.

On that long-ago morning, he’d been sitting at the doorway of his hobbit hole, smoking his long pipe, and anticipating a day that held no surprises. He was beginning to think about breakfast, when Sherlock came by.

This was unexpected, as mornings went, and even more unsettling because the wizards are not only unpredictable, but are also known to attract adventures.

John nodded at the tall figure, who was hurrying down the path. “Good morning!”

Sherlock bent over and studied him. “You’re a doctor.”

“I am.” He blew out a beautiful ring of smoke.

“Seen a lot of injuries, violent deaths?”

“Good heavens, no! Hobbits don’t do things like that.”

The wizard made a scoffing sound and pronounced a single word. “Boring!”


	10. Oenology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk discussion, a Mitch Hedberg joke, and the Science of Seduction.

When Sherlock solves the case of the winery, the owner, as promised, sends them a case of very nice wine. Naturally, they have to open a bottle and try it. And another to compare. And a third to consolidate their findings.

“Is this cooking wine?” John takes another swallow and squints into his glass. “For dinner I was going to make that thing.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. “The thing with the peas?”

“No. It has chicken and… you know… things. Parsnips. Or carrots. Vegetable things. And you cook it in wine.”

“Red or white?”

“I dunno. White, I guess. Isn’t chicken white?”

“This is pink,” says Sherlock, clinking his glass against John’s. “Cheers. I don’t _gen-er-ally_ like rosé, but this is… quite _de-lect-able_.” He’s pronouncing words carefully, he notices, because his lips are not fully cooperating. Speech is such a complicated thing.

“Green,” says John. “Those green grapes. Why isn’t there green wine?”

“Good question. No clue.”

“Should be. For holidays.”

“Not a vivid green, though,” says Sherlock. “Like ab-snith…absence… absinthe. Absinthe.” He says the word several times to make sure it’s right. Not an easy word. “Absinthe. I had it once.”

“How was it?”

“Disappointing. Could hardly taste the wormwood.”

“Wormwood.” John frowns. “That a mushroom?”

“Plant. Ornamental. Toxic, kinda.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not very. Only one documented case. Idiot.”

“Idiot yourself.” John giggles. “Only you would know that.”

They’ll have to go to the shops if they want to make the chicken thing, with the vegetable things, and that sounds like too much effort. They open a packet of flatbread and slice some of the cheddar that isn’t hosting a mould experiment. Sherlock finds a bunch of grapes that are not very shrivelled.

John grabs the cheese and flatbread and another bottle of the wine, and moves the feast into the sitting room. Sherlock follows with the grapes and a packet of biscuits. John lights a candle and they sit on the floor, like a picnic.

 _It’s almost romantic_ , Sherlock thinks. “Almost romantic,” he says. “Did I say that out loud?” He pops a grape into his mouth.

John giggles. “You have to wait.”

He chews the grape. “Wha’ for?”

“Th’ grape,” John says. “It’s a grape.”

“I’m aware,” he replies.

“Still a grape. Not wine yet. You gotta wait.” He giggles again.

“Okay, I’m waiting.” He’s not sure, but maybe John has just told a joke. _Interesting_. “What does it mean?”

“Yer a wino,” John says. “Don’t eat the grapes. Gotta wait for the grapes to turn into wine.”

“We have plenty of wine, John. And grapes— I s’pose we’d have to ferment them. What we need is— _Saccharomyces cerevisiae_.” He’s not sure how he’s managed to pull these syllables out of his brain, but there they are. It’s like a magic trick, only the magician is completely pissed.

John snorts. “Just a joke. And now you’re doing that thing.”

“What _thing_? I’m not even wearing my coat. Or collar. What _thing_ am I doing?”

“That thing. Where you seduce me with science.”

“Science,” he repeats. “My dear doctor, _se-duc-tion_ ought to be an exact _science_ , but I can see that you have once again attempted to tinge it with—“ He draws a breath, not sure where his sentence is going.

“Come here, you romantic seductor… deductor... deducer…,” John says, grabbing his dressing gown. “I deduce that you are seducing me.”

The kiss is sloppy, and tastes a bit like wine, but it’s the best thing Sherlock has ever imbibed.

“You’ve biased my judgment, doctor,” he says.

“About time.” John presses a grape to Sherlock’s lips. “I wasn’t ‘bout to wait any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mitch Hedberg joke: "I saw this wino, he was eating grapes. I was like, 'Dude, you have to wait.'"  
> Maybe you had to be there.


	11. Death and Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small sequel to Neil Gaimon's "The Case of Death and Honey."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Major Character Death.

“You’re home.” The blue eyes, now clouded with cataracts, followed my voice.

My heart broke a little. I hadn’t expected him to decline so much in a few months— no, it had been almost a year, hadn’t it? “Yes, my dear. I’ve come back, and I have so much to tell you.”

Watson smiled. “China, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, China.”

“And have you solved it? The case…” His trembling hand fumbled for something, maybe his cane. The wheeled chair made it unnecessary, but the cane had been his friend for many years, and his hand still sought it. “Bees. You were studying something about bees.”

“I have solved it.” I smiled into my friend’s sightless eyes. The theatrical makeup hadn’t been necessary at all. He wouldn’t have seen even the smallest change in me, let alone the shedding of fifty years. “My longest case.”

He chuckled. “Twenty years since you retired. It must have been a difficult one. But you sound well.” 

The housekeeper brought out a tray with the tea. I’d asked for toast as well, and now brought out the jar I’d carried all the way from China.

“I am quite well, Watson. And I’ve brought you a present.”

His face lit up like a boy’s. “For me?”

“Just for you, dear boy. A very special honey from a hive of bees I tended while I was away.” I moved my chair closer to his.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you,” he said. “I’ve missed you. For so long.”

I drizzled a bit of the honey on the toast. “It’s a rather dark honey,” I told him. “Smoky, almost.”

He cocked his head. There is no food that Watson will not try, so I had no worry that he would not taste it. The honey was potent; it would only take a little bit.

I brought it to his mouth. He opened and accepted the morsel. For a few seconds he closed his eyes, perhaps trying to categorise the taste. Eyes still closed, he smiled. “Sultry,” he said. “Almost… sensual. Like perfume. Or incense.”

I prepared another piece for him, adding a dollop of the honey. “Have another.”

He took it readily, savoured it for a while, his tongue darting out to catch the honey on his lips. “I’ve never tasted anything so… enigmatic.” He sat back, and I put his teacup into his hands.

“You like it, then?” I watched his face.

Sighing, he smiled and closed his eyes. “It makes me think of… us. Years ago, before my marriage, I thought… you were such a beautiful man, Holmes. I never told you that. Well, all my wives are gone, no children to nurse me in my senescence. And yet here you are, still at my side.”

I took his hand in mine. “And that is where I shall remain, old friend, now that I’m home. I’ve missed you too, dear Watson.”

Still smiling, he said nothing, but continued to hold my hand.

As he fell asleep, I could already see the signs of age falling from his features. The deep wrinkles smoothed out and the hair became blonder, thicker.

Once, many years earlier, we had talked about sailing to New York, seeing America. Then there was the war, and Watson’s last wife died, and I had not yet solved the puzzle. The crime, as Mycroft had called it. _A crime against the world, against nature, against order. Death, in general_.

We would take a ship to New York, I decided, as we had once planned, and spend a few years exploring. Watson had always had been fascinated by the American West, working it into as many of his stories as he could. Now we would go there and see all of that, only returning to London once we’d been long forgotten. New names, a new life for us.

I looked at his sleeping form, now young and handsome, just as he was on the day we met. Two young men, hungry for danger and adventure and mystery.

Well, there was still plenty of that in the world. And now there was plenty of time for all of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read Gaiman's story [here](http://www.pages.drexel.edu/~ina22/200/The%20Case%20of%20Death%20and%20Honey.htm)


	12. Consulting Grammarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is silently correcting our grammar.

“Me and my sister don’t get along.” John sighed. “I mean, as kids—”

Sherlock looked up with a pained expression. “My sister and I.”

John blinked. “You have a sister?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to sigh. “I mean, the correct way to say it is, _my sister and I don’t get along_. You wouldn’t say _me_ _don’t get along_ , would you? You need a subject pronoun, not an object pronoun.”

John stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. Which he was: _English_.

“Okay, right. Yeah, I get it. _My sister and I don’t get along._ Happy? If your giant brain has deduced anything about Harry and I—”

“Harry and me.”

“You haven’t met her,” John said, frowning. “I’ve known her all my life.”

“No, I mean that you should have said, _if your giant brain has deduced anything about Harry and_ _me_ _._ You used a subject pronoun where an object pronoun was needed. You wouldn’t say, _if your giant brain has deduced anything about_ _I_ _,_ would you?”

John closed his eyes. Sherlock deduced that he wasn’t thinking about pronouns.

“It’s elementary, Watson,” he said. “ _I_ is a subject pronoun—”

John smirked. “I think you mean, _I_ _am_ _a subject pronoun._ You wouldn’t say, _I_ _is_ _Sherlock Holmes_ , would you?”

“Don’t be obtuse, John. I mean, the word _I_ is a subject pronoun. The word _me_ is an object pronoun. They have specific roles in a sentence.” He settled back in his chair. “Do carry on with whatever you were saying. You and your sister…?”

John was silent. He might have been thinking about what an insufferable prat his flatmate was. Or he might have been afraid to open his mouth. Because: _pronouns_.

But John Watson was never a coward. Whether he was dealing with criminals or grammar, he was willing to risk looking like an idiot.

“Okay, I remember this one time,” he began. Closing his mouth, he frowned uncertainly.

Sherlock smiled encouragingly. “You’re doing fine.”

“This one time _Harry and I—”_ He shot a glance at Sherlock, who nodded. “We were on holiday. Our family had went—”

Sherlock cleared his throat.


	13. And Here You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scene from Fight Club.   
> This is real, you’re thinking. This man is going to kill me.

You feel the muzzle of my Browning pressed against the back of your skull, and you wonder, _why me_?

It’s very simple, really. Why _not_ you?

The fact that you left your dreary little bedsit and walked out into the street in the middle of the night tells me that you were thinking more about the _other_ gun— the one upstairs, in the drawer next to your bed— than the one that is now about to blow your brains out.

Gives you a different perspective, doesn’t it? Every night you think about that gun, contemplate ending it all, but you never think about a psycho with a gun waiting in the alley for you to walk by, grabbing you and threatening to kill you, do you?

I watch you coming out of the little tragedy playing inside your head. _This is real_ , you’re thinking. _This man is going to kill me_.

Listen, John H Watson. You’re going to die tonight. In one second or one hour, you decide. So lie to me. Tell me the first thing off the top of your head. Make something up. I don't give a shit. I have a gun.

Why does John H Watson want to live?

_I don’t_ , you say. _Go ahead, make my day_.

And I ask, _Afghanistan or Iraq?_

_Afghanistan_ , you say. _But how did you…?_

I’m holding your military ID in my hand. No driving license, so you’ve just come back. Wounded in action. An army doctor, invalided home. And the cane. I’m sorry to say that your therapist’s correct: the limp _is_ psychosomatic.

So tell me, Doctor Watson. Make something up. What do you have to live for?

You don’t know.

Fine. Death to commence in ten, nine, eight…

_Go ahead_ , you say _. Shoot me. I don’t have anything to live for._

You’re a doctor. It must be embarrassing for a man who has dedicated his life to saving people to feel so ready to put a bullet in his brain.

Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and buses and cars. But you’ve seen a lot of trouble, a lot of injuries, violent deaths. More than enough for a lifetime.

That lifetime is about to end. I nudge the muzzle of my gun against your cheek, a reminder that it’s still here.

_No,_ you say. _Don’t._ Your voice shakes.

Not so brave now, are you?

Why? Tell me why you want to live. You’ve looked death in the face far too often. Look again. A dangerous man is holding a gun to your head.

Maybe it’s the danger you miss. Do you want to see some more?

_Oh, God, yes._

Fine. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?

You can have your wallet back. I know who you are, John H Watson. I know where you live.

I’ll be seeing you again very soon, and when I do, I expect you to be ready. There’s no point in sitting home, looking at your gun and thinking about killing yourself, or walking the streets at night, waiting for someone to do it for you. Not when there are things happening out there. Murders that need solving, wrongs that need righting.

The battlefield is out there. Welcome back, Captain Watson.


	14. Yes or No

“Do you love her?”

It had taken them less than thirty minutes to go from the Rizla game to just asking each other random questions. The only celebrities that Sherlock knew were nineteenth-century chemists and twentieth-century criminals, which had more or less spoiled the game, and Sherlock had declared it _pointless._

Then he suggested _Yes or No,_ which at least required some deductive reasoning, and John agreed. But Sherlock was very good at this game, having deduced nearly everything about John in the first days of their acquaintance. Without asking any question, he deduced that John would choose _violin, a human liver, Mrs Hudson’s nephew,_ and Sherlock’s old _mouse-coloured_ _dressing gown_.

John gives up. “Fine. What don’t you know about me?”

 _Do you love her_ is a real question, he gathers— from the look on Sherlock’s face, which is serious and a bit sad.

The answer, which should be _yes, of course I love her,_ instead comes out, “I’m marrying her.”

“People marry for reasons other than—“ Sherlock stops, appearing to realise he is going in a direction that can only lead to bad feelings. “Sorry, not a fair question. Better: When did you know that you loved her?”

He remembers grief. The intense pain of the days after he saw Sherlock die on the sidewalk in front of Barts. There are few details he can recall after that moment. It was as if the pain had receded just enough to let him breathe, and a kind of grey fog had descended. Pain, then sorrow.

Somewhere during the sorrow part, Mary had appeared. She may have been there sooner, but he hadn’t noticed. At some point he became aware of her bringing him coffee, talking to him, urging him to come out for lunch. Always there, cheerfully bullying him back into life. Eventually he noticed that he wasn’t quite as sad, and that she was rather pretty.

But the pain was still there, a tender spot in his memory, and most days he still felt defeated. Mary helped, though, and he thought that if she stayed, everything would be easier. He didn’t need to explain; she understood. He could keep the memories at bay when she was around.

By then he was having sex with her. He didn’t remember exactly how that had begun. Maybe it was a pity fuck one night when he’d had too much to drink. He woke up in her bed hungover, waiting for the darkness to descend like a weight on his chest, and she was there, making him a cup of tea, urging him to have some toast, sweetly solicitous and not accepting any excuses.

_Does he love her?_

Sherlock is still looking at him, the question in his eyes.

“She was there when I needed someone,” he says. “I just knew.”

He’d known that morning that he needed to move on, to leave what had happened in the past and live his life. And there she was.

“Your turn,” Sherlock says.

John thinks of all the things he’s ever wanted to know about Sherlock, but has never asked because it has never seemed a good time. Sherlock has a way of warding off questions with just a look. An armour that does not allow anyone in, not even John. He’s wondered about a lot of things, but asking has never been an option. Sherlock never has to ask; he simply deduces. John is terrible at deductions, as Sherlock often reminds him.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Twice.”

“That was a yes-no question, so I get follow-up. So, the first. Who was he?”

Sherlock smiles. “You’re assuming it was a man.”

“Wasn’t it? I thought… you’re… erm…”

“Gay? Yes, I am.”

“You loved a man,” John says. _Obviously._

“Well, a boy. I was twelve. I suppose it wasn’t love so much as infatuation and hormones. His name was Victor. I never told him until I met him again at uni.” He gives John one of those looks that makes him feel like he is being x-rayed. “Have you ever kissed a man?”

“I’m not gay,” he says at once. “I mean, why would I kiss a man if I knew I wasn’t gay?”

“Follow-up question, then. When did you know you were not gay?”

John’s mouth may have been open for a bit. It’s an odd question. Everybody knows they’re straight until something happens and they know they’re not. Isn’t that the way it works? “I just knew. When did you know you were gay?”

“When I was twelve. I was at a stupid birthday party my mother made me attend, and we were playing Forfeit. I was asked a question I didn’t like to answer and took the forfeit. Up until then the penalties were stupid things like singing a song or doing a dance, but this time it was kissing a girl. The girl was willing, and I was curious, so I agreed. That was when I realised girls weren’t my cup of tea, so to speak. I wanted to kiss Victor.”

John says nothing, though it’s his turn. He remembers a similar party, a boy who wanted to kiss him, and feeling terrified that his parents would find out if he did. Harry had just come out, and he was trying very hard to make up for all of her shortcomings.

Sherlock asks, “How do you know you’re not gay if you’ve never kissed a man?”

“I’ve kissed lots of women,” he replies. “I don’t need to kiss a man to know I’m not gay.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I assumed that I was like everyone else, that some day I would meet the right girl, get married, and have children. That was how it was supposed to work, and I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn’t like girls that way. All my fantasies were about boys, but I thought I would eventually be attracted to girls as I got older. That kiss told me I would never love a woman.”

“You think I should kiss a man just to see if I’m a bit gay?” He laughs.

“It’s your forfeit, for not having an answer.”

“I’m not going to kiss some random bloke just because you—“

“Not a random bloke. Me. Kiss me.”

This is dangerous ground. Somewhere in his libido lies something that he’s thought about. Maybe he’s even fantasised about kissing a man. Having sex with a man. Just a lark, maybe. Don’t lots of men go through that? It doesn’t mean anything.

But, Sherlock. He lived with him for a year and a half, and they’d been friends. And he grieved when Sherlock died. Not grieved like a friend. He’d lost friends before, and this was nothing like those losses. Pain, darkness, unending regret. Even after Mary, some of that darkness remained. Moments when he remembered something Sherlock had said or done, a stab of pain. If it hadn’t been for Mary—

And it came to him. Mary was balm for his wounds. She brought him back from the edge. He is grateful to her. But gratitude isn’t love. Being in such pain for so long, and then a bit of light— that isn’t love, it’s relief. He’s seen patients in physical pain almost become high when given a dose of something that takes their agony away, not even enough to make them high. Relief feels like intoxication when pain has gone on so long.

If it hadn’t been for Mary, he would have understood what he’d only begun to see. She helped him, saved him even. But she was a distraction from the pain, not a cure.

He glances at Sherlock, who is pulling back, looking like he wishes he hadn’t just asked for a kiss. Maybe he’ll make a joke about their game, move them towards goodnight, goodbye, see you at the wedding.

“Yes,” he says. It’s an answer to everything— regret, grief, sorrow, love. It’s an apology for not seeing sooner, for the night at the Landmark, for his anger and cruel rejection of the man he has loved for years. “Kiss me.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock is right. The kiss tells John things he’s tried hard to forget. It tells him that has loved men before, but called it friendship, that he has wanted to touch men and kiss them, and called it lust, or fantasy, or _a phase that all men go through_. Women attract him too, and he grabbed onto heterosexuality like a life-raft because he was afraid of the alternative. His sister and his father, yelling. Harry thrown out of the house. His father, looking at him, saying _not you too. Never you, my boy._

The kiss tells him that has already met the love of his life.

“I need to call Mary,” he says when they break away.

Sherlock looks sad. He nods. “Of course.”

“One more question,” John says. “Who was the second person you loved?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he says. “I’m about to call my fiancee and break our engagement just days before the wedding because I’m in love with my best friend. So please, answer the question.”

Sherlock’s face does something John has never seen. It crumples and tears fill his eyes, and then he’s laughing and crying and not able to speak.

John kisses him again.


End file.
